A/N: And now for the conclusion...

See Disclaimer, Chapter 1

Bird Flu - Chapter 60

Don took in a deep breath. It was Morgan, all right, his eyes closed, the skin already turning grayish, waxy, the puckered scar on his cheek purple against the pasty skin. His eyes were slightly open, and when the examiner had opened the drawer Don initially had the brief thought that Morgan was still alive. He was most certainly dead, though, the examiner lifted Morgan's arm slightly, and the whole torso moved; the body was already stiffening, and the eyes were beginning to get cloudy. Don stood and stared for a moment, as memories from the past few weeks flitted through his head. Then he nodded, stepped back, and watched the man replace the sheet and close the vault door.

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A little over two weeks later, Don stepped into the living room of the Craftsman, shutting the door quietly as he spied the figure sprawled on the sofa. Charlie was lying there reading a technical journal, and at that instant, he looked so normal, so like his old self, that Don just stood there and watched for a moment, drinking in the sight. The cast was finally off his wrist – it had actually been ready to come off during the trial, but there had been no time to deal with it then. The doctors had removed it while Charlie had been in the hospital after the courtroom attack. There were now no obvious signs of what he'd gone through.

It had been a rocky few days after the assault in the courtroom. Charlie was in a good deal of pain from both the head and the ear injury, and had been severely nauseated when he was awake, which was only part of the time. His memory of what had happened in the courtroom was spotty, but as the pain receded and he became more alert, it seemed to clear. Not that being able to recall what happened was necessarily good – Charlie didn't need another reminder of how it felt to be at Ryan Morgan's mercy. The awareness that the killer was gone, however, did a lot to help Charlie come to terms with it. Don hadn't realized just how much tension had been generated in Charlie by the mere fact that the man was still alive. Now that he knew the killer was gone, his brother appeared to be better able to move on, to start to deal with what had happened.

Even so, he seemed to have a way to go. He was still solemn, quiet, subdued. Don had found that he, too, had been changed by what happened. Prior to Charlie's kidnapping, it seemed he had been content to be alone; coming home to an empty apartment after work hadn't bothered him much. When he craved company he'd sought it out, but for most of the week, he'd spent his off-work hours in solitude.

Now, however, the apartment seemed lonely and too quiet. He spent his evenings either at Charlie's house or Robin's place, or Robin came over to his apartment. Don had apparently decided subconsciously, at some point during the affair, that being alone was for the birds. Maybe the reason he felt that way was simply the realization that life was unpredictable and not to be wasted, but Don suspected a lot of it had to do with a new, stronger relationship he'd forged with his brother. Their relationship had been lacking an essential component - shared experiences. In earlier years, the age difference, their personality differences; their years away from home all had made it difficult to find things they liked to do together, and even when they did, it was hard to connect. Working on cases had brought them together, slowly, but the kidnapping had been a catalyst. The ordeal, as bad as it was, had been a shared experience – an intense one, bonding them like nothing else had previously. They had a history together now, that tied them together like mutual survivors, like comrades in arms.

Now, his eyes met his brother's across the room, and he saw a glimmer of affection that he knew must be mirrored in his own eyes. "Hey, Chuck."

"Hey," came Charlie's quiet response, as Alan bustled into the room, on his way to the kitchen.

"Don," said his father cheerfully, "how was your day?" He paused at a table, trying to straighten out a pile of reading material – Charlie had stacks of it lying haphazardly over the surface.

"Good," said Don.

Alan fussed with the papers and magazines, some of them slipping to the floor. "Charlie," he said, "I thought I asked you to weed through these yesterday. You need to file them or do something with them, son." The comment, which might have been sharp weeks ago, came out gently, although Don noticed just a hint of frustration in Alan's voice. Some things, it seemed, were getting back to normal.

Charlie looked at him blankly. "What?"

"I said, you need to organize these," replied Alan, finally getting the pile into something that at least looked like it would remain on the table.

"I can't hear you. What?"

Don felt his gut twist in apprehension, and Alan straightened and looked at Charlie anxiously. Charlie's ear had been healing, or so they had thought, but it seemed his brother apparently couldn't hear a conversation at a normal volume from just a few feet away.

Charlie stared back at them, and then a grin crept to his face, slowly, spreading across like the sun, a mischievous light dancing in his eyes – his first real smile in weeks. Alan snorted and swatted at the air in Charlie's general direction, and then looked at Don in mock disgust. "Some things never change. It appears he's gotten his selective hearing back." He smiled at his sons. "Come on, dinner's ready."

A short time later, Don shot a glance sideways at the table, noting with satisfaction that Charlie was digging into his plate of beef stroganoff with enthusiasm. "So, you had a checkup today, huh?"

Charlie turned his head slightly. He still did have some difficulty hearing in his left ear, although it was improving. "Yeah, I got released to drive again. The audiologist said I'm up to 70 percent in my ear, although the ear specialist said today that it probably wouldn't come back all the way. He doesn't think the bones were fractured, but the eardrum, along with the bones, shifted a little with respect to the cochlea. He expects 90 percent recovery though, he said."

Alan grunted, and his eyes glinted with humor. "Not enough of an excuse for not taking out the trash."

Charlie grinned again, and Don drank in the sight. God, it felt so good to see him smile. "No, I guess not. I'll have to think of something else." Charlie speared a chunk of beef with his fork. "I talked to Millie today, too. I'm going back to school when the fall semester starts – in two weeks."

Alan sat up in his chair, concern on his face. "Charlie, isn't that a bit too soon?"

Charlie looked back at them, and Don could see a trace of his old confidence as he met their eyes. "No – I realize I still have a way to go with – dealing - with all of it, but I think I should do this. Dr. Raine agrees. I'm going to try it, and Millie assured me if it's too much, I can back out, and they'll make other arrangements." His tone turned slightly pleading. "I need to do this, Dad. I need something to occupy my mind. I need to start working on getting my life back."

Alan looked at him doubtfully. "Well, as long as Susan says it's okay to try…"

"Oh, it's okay as long as Susan says so," Don needled, smirking, and Charlie jumped in, both of them teasing as Alan, flustered, tried to protest. As they finished dinner and stood up to clear the plates, Don's heart soared at the normalcy of it all – the light talk, the banter, the smiles. As he set his plate on the counter, he thought to himself that it was probably the best dinner he'd ever had.

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It was a great evening, and the mood hung on into the next morning. Don strode off the office elevators with a slight smile on his face, but his progress to the bullpen was brought up short by Wright. Normally, the A.D. didn't appear in their offices unless there was something serious underway, and Don immediately sobered. Wright pulled him aside, his expression serious. "Don, I need to talk to you in the back conference room."

Don's brow knit. The back conference room was windowless, and they used it when they wanted privacy. "What about?"

"It's communication from the Director, concerning your handling of the Flower Killer case." He looked at the briefcase in Don's hand. "Put your stuff on your desk and come on in."

Don's gut contracted, as he watched Wright set off for the conference room. He'd been aware there had been an inquiry by Bureau internal affairs, which Wright had assured him was standard when an agent was involved in an investigation concerning his own family members. Don had followed orders, getting an evaluation and clearance for field duty from Dr. Bradford after the trial. He'd known he'd pushed the envelope, though, on his takedown of Morgan at the hospital, and then had been involved in an altercation that resulted in the death of the man in the courtroom. There had been a surveillance tape running in the room for security purposes, however, and it had vindicated both him and Colby; Morgan's injury had clearly been an accidental outcome of their attempt at rescue, and Charlie's endeavor to stop Morgan from escaping. What had happened? Had Morgan's family filed a lawsuit? Had internal affairs decided he was a liability?

He moved slowly to his desk, noting that none of his team members were in the room, and his stomach twisted into an even tighter ball. Why would they all be gone at this moment – unless they didn't want to face him when he came out of the conference room after his meeting with Wright? Did they already know? Maybe this was worse than he'd thought…

His mouth dry, he crossed the room, turned down the hall. At the door, he took a breath and gently twisted the knob. As the door swung open, he stood there, rooted in place, his mouth hanging open. Megan, Colby, David, Liz, his father, and Charlie stood in the room with Wright, facing him, smiles on their faces. "Come in, Don," said Wright. His serious expression had been replaced by a smile, and he was holding a document in a gold frame.

Don moved slowly into the room and shut the door, trying to compose his features, although he knew he still looked bewildered. Wright stepped forward. "Don, I've seen many cases over the years that affected agents on a personal level, with varying effects on their level of performance. I have never, however, seen such tenacious commitment, such dedication, and such coolness under unbelievable pressure as I saw from you on this case. The Director agrees with me, and he would like you to accept this letter of commendation from him." He held out the frame to display an official-looking letter, mounted inside. "Normally, these letters simply go in your file, but I thought this one warranted a little bit more of an occasion, and I wanted to present it to you personally."

"Plus, it's good excuse to have cake," David grinned, with a nod at a decorated sheet cake on the table. Everyone chuckled, and Don felt an answering smile come to his face as he took in their expressions. His gaze met Charlie's; he saw his brother's eyes, filled with pride and affection, and his grin widened, as he shook Wright's hand and accepted the letter.

"Thank you, sir." Don eyes swept the room. "It helps to have a great team -," he looked at Alan, who was beaming proudly, "and solid support from your family. I couldn't have done it without all of you."

Colby gave Charlie an affectionate thump on the back, making the professor stagger a bit. "We weren't about to let anyone get away with a member of the team," he said, and Charlie flushed a little, embarrassed but pleased.

Don examined the letter, which was printed on expensive paper and bore the Bureau seal. "The official letter is in your file," said Wright, "but I'd thought you'd like a copy."

"Thanks," he said quietly, more seriously, his eyes meeting Wright's, "but you gave this to the wrong guy. Charlie's the one who should get the credit." He paused, holding Charlie's eyes for a moment. "He survived something horrible, and still managed to nail Morgan on the stand. And when Morgan tried to escape, Charlie was willing to put his life on the line to stop him. I can't think of anyone who deserves an award more – and I'm sure as hell proud to say he's my brother."

Charlie returned his gaze; the blush had deepened, and there was something indescribable in his eyes. Alan looked barely able to contain himself and ready to burst with delight; he kept looking back and forth between the two of them as if he'd suddenly awakened to find two imposters as his sons – two imposters of which he was insufferably proud.

Megan smiled. "Here, here."

"Okay, enough of the speeches," said Colby, rubbing his hands. "It's cake time."

A moment later, cake in hand, Don sidled up to Alan and Charlie. "You two knew about this last night, didn't you?" he said, in a slightly accusing voice.

Charlie and Alan exchanged an amused glance, and Charlie looked at Don with an impish grin. "Maybe Wright told me – I'm not sure if I understood what he said," he replied. "I'm hard of hearing, you know."

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Charlie walked briskly across campus, flashing a quiet smile at a group of students who called out a greeting. It was seven weeks after the attack at the courtroom, and three weeks since he'd come back to CalSci. Three weeks, and already it seemed almost as though he'd never left.

There was a chasm between last spring and this fall however, that he was still trying to assimilate. The entire summer yawned like a black pit in his mind, something that still twisted his insides when he remembered, especially if those memories hit him suddenly. It helped to get back to teaching, to a routine, although he'd had hard time convincing his brother and his father of that. They'd worried that he wasn't strong enough, physically or mentally. The past month had helped convince them; he'd regained a little weight, although his clothes were still baggy. On the surface, no one would guess what he'd experienced. Under his shirt, and on his psyche, however, he still bore scars.

He reached the building that housed the staff offices, and made his way down the hall to his office, depositing his lecture materials and packing his bag for home. It was the end of the day, and although he had tests to grade, he knew he probably wouldn't get to them that night - he had plans with Don. He packed them anyway, slung the bag on his shoulder and paused, drinking in the early evening sunlight streaming through the window. There was no doubt, he was nervous, but he took a deep breath and stepped out, locking the door.

He made his way down the hallway, and paused at the entrance to her office. The late sunlight glinted golden from Amita's dark head as she bent over paperwork on her desk. She was totally absorbed and hadn't seen him yet, and he stood there, just taking in the sight of her. God, he still loved her so much it hurt, but it was the fear of that pain that had made him keep her at arm's length. In spite of his statement that they could be friends, he'd kept their relationship at no more than colleagues for weeks. She'd been a bit hurt at first, but doggedly persistent, and as time wore on, Charlie had to admit to himself he'd probably tested her past the patience limit of most women. Still, he couldn't bring himself to do more than ease into it cautiously – even though he'd decided it was time. He knocked softly.

She looked up, a smile and a questioning look appearing on her face at the same time, a look that said, 'Don't get me wrong - I like this, but what are you doing here?'

"Charlie, hi," she said, the surprise resonating in her voice.

He stepped in slowly, a little awkwardly, feeling like he'd felt the first time he'd asked her out. "I – uh – I was wondering if you'd want to go out tomorrow night – maybe a movie or something," he said. A movie was a safe start, he thought, something that friends did together…

Her jaw dropped a little, but she quickly recovered, and a smile came to her face. "Dr. Eppes; are you asking me out on a date?" she said coyly.

He grinned shyly. "Maybe." His expression sobered, turned earnest, and he stammered, "I thought – maybe we could start over. I mean - we don't have to – we can keep it just friends – I still have a lot to work through, and I'll understand if that's all you want-,"

"Charlie," she interrupted his stumbling flow of words gently. "I'd love to go." Her smile softened and he could see the warmth, the love radiating from her eyes. He smiled back, thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, there might a future for them, after all.

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Don glanced at his watch. Charlie had called to say he was on his way from the Craftsman, and Don knew he'd be getting there any minute. His brother had invited him to dinner – he'd told him he wanted to thank him properly for everything he'd done, and although Don had tried to downplay it, Charlie had insisted. They'd picked a date, and Charlie had made reservations at the most expensive steak restaurant in L.A., and told Don he'd pick him up.

Don heard the soft rap at the door, and detoured toward it on his way to the kitchen, pulling it open with a grin. "Hey, Chuck. I was just going to pull out a couple of beers – you want one before we go?"

"Sure." Charlie stepped inside as Don turned and headed for the refrigerator, but he didn't sit, instead he stood there a bit self-consciously, and as Don returned, he noticed his brother had a box in his hands.

Don's step slowed. "What's that?"

Charlie held the box out, and Don set the beers down on a nearby table, as his brother looked at him. Charlie looked a little too serious, as if he were struggling to hold something in, emotions that threatened to spill out. "Just something I got for you," he stammered, awkwardly. He looked up at Don, solemnly. "I don't know how to thank you – for, for everything, for not giving up, for saving me, in more ways than one."

Don took the box and looked down at it, hefting it; it weighed more than he would have expected. "Charlie, you don't have to thank me -,"

"Yes, I do," interjected Charlie, cutting him off. "It's – I don't know – anyway, I had it made, just something to remember what happened, what you did for me." 'What you mean to me,' he added silently.

Don looked at him, then down at the box, and opened it carefully, pulling out the metal figure. It was an eagle, exquisitely done in great detail, perched on a rock, proudly surveying its domain. It was pewter, about eight inches high, and was a work of art, that looked expensive.

"It's a bird," said Charlie unnecessarily. "I wanted a bird of some kind, and the eagle reminded me of you." He paused; then continued. "I spent a lot of time trying to forget, trying to put what happened out of my mind, but I decided that was wrong. It's part of our history now. It's good to remember." He cleared his throat. "Read the bottom."

Don carefully turned it over, and read the inscription engraved into the bottom. "Always the eagle, always my hero. To Don from Charlie, Summer 2008." He looked up with a sudden lump in his throat. "Charlie – I don't know what to say. This is -," he looked back down at the figure again – "this is – it's the best thing anyone's ever given me."

Charlie let out a breath, and grinned in relief. "You like it, then?"

Don shook his head in amazement, smiling, and reached out, giving him a quick fierce hug. He held him for a moment, as a sudden wave of deep emotion swept through him; then released him, looking at him. "You didn't have to do this," he repeated. 'It's enough just to have you here,' he thought to himself. "You're the hero, here. But yes, of course I do."

Charlie rubbed his hands, a ridiculously pleased grin on his face. "Well, then, that's good. Look, can I use your bathroom to wash up a little before we go? I stopped at home, but I forgot. I still have chalk dust on my hands."

Don was turning the figure over in his hands. "Sure. Go ahead. We've got time, right? We'll sit and have those beers." Charlie loped off to the bathroom, and still Don stood there looking at the eagle, thinking of that evening; it seemed ages ago, when he'd walked in to find the birds in his apartment. After everything that happened, Charlie had picked a bird to commemorate it – it was odd, and touching at the same time.

It was something that belonged proudly on a mantel, but he didn't have one. Instead, he crossed the room to a case. It was a decent piece of furniture, and doubled as bookcase and a display case. On top of it were some of his most treasured trophies from his baseball days, and other awards, including the framed letter he'd just received a few weeks ago from Wright. He pushed them all backwards, and put the eagle in the place of honor, front and center. As he did, something floated downward, dislodged by one of the trophies, and he bent to pick it up.

It was a feather, left in spite of the cleaning job they'd done. It must have been caught in one of the trophies. He turned automatically to take it to the trash; then stopped, staring at it, remembering - the fear, the pain, the tears, and above all the resolve – his resolve to save his brother, Charlie's resolve to survive, both of them determined to vanquish a killer … The room was quiet, and for a moment, there was nothing else in the universe, just him, and the feather.

He looked back at the eagle, and then carefully lifted it, set the feather underneath, and placed the figure gently on top of it. The eagle stared back at him, unafraid, fierce, proud; triumphant. Charlie was right, he thought, it was good to remember.

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The End

A/N: I really had no plans for a sequel, I thought it better to complete this one. I've been writing it for so long, it will seem odd to be without it. I have some other ideas percolating, however, and I plan to do a joint fic with FraidyCat before I tackle them. My deepest thanks to all of you who read and reviewed this story - your comments made it better, and I love writing for you all, you're the best. SG